


I Cook As Good as I Look (And I'm a Terrifying Sight to Behold)

by Shadow0kana, whtbout2ndbrkfst



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Bad Cooking, Baking, Crowley Gets a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Disaster Crowley (Good Omens), Established Relationship, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Insecure Crowley (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), apologies to french toast, i spent four hours debating if french toast should be tagged as baking or cooking, the bookshop also loves Crowley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29034321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow0kana/pseuds/Shadow0kana, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whtbout2ndbrkfst/pseuds/whtbout2ndbrkfst
Summary: It's not long after Crowley and Aziraphale settle down in their new lives post-Apocolypse, that Crowley starts to fret - is he doing enough? Is the angel happy enough? The fretting leads to baking, and baking leads to well ... "disaster" might be too kind a discriptor.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 28
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Really excited to share this with you all. This work is part of the Reverse Bang for Do It With Style Events. Chapter 4 and 6 of this work will have art from the super talented Shadow0Kana so stay tuned for that!

It’s no secret that Aziraphale loves food. He once almost got his head chopped off in Paris for want of a good crepe. So, post Apocalypse, it shouldn’t be too surprising that Aziraphale enjoys finding new food to try - everything from avocado toast to biscuits and gravy to encebollado. He reads all the reviews and always has a new restaurant he wants to try with Crowley.

It’s no secret that Crowley loves Aziraphale. They once conceded to make Hamlet popular for naught but a happy wiggle. So, post Apocalypse, it shouldn’t be too surprising that Crowley enjoys spending all their free time with the angel - whether it’s at the theatre, the park, the museums, or just in the book shop. They can hardly believe Aziraphale has finally consented to be theirs.

It takes less than five hours post their failed executions for Aziraphale to confess his love, less than five days for Crowley to move themself and their belongings permanently into the bookshop, and less than five months before the two officially tie the knot at St. James Park before God, their friends, and the prying eyes of the swans.

As the months pass by, their contentment comes easy - both happy to just bask in the other’s presence - Shared glasses of wines, nights under the stars, and road trips to nowhere. The laughter comes easy - Easy banter and inside jokes spanning a lifetime and trips to Mesopotamia, Jordan, Niger, Chile, Berlin, Japan slip out at inopportune moments. Silent giggles wracking them both after a shared look, a raised brow, a rolled eye. Their love comes easy too. After 6,000 years of repressed feelings, both are bubbling over with small touches, kind words, and acts of service.

Crowley wants for nothing. They have never felt more at home than they do standing next to Aziraphale. Aziraphale wants for nothing. He has never been more happy than he is with Crowley by his side.  
And yet, well … and yet. 

It’s barely a year after the failed Apocalypse, 7 months since they exchanged “I dos”, and Crowley has somehow gotten it into their head that they should be doing more. They drape themselves over one arm of the couch while Aziraphale works to keep potential customers from making off with his books, and thinks. They think about how happy Aziraphale makes them, how safe they feel, how incredibly content after 6,000 years of constantly looking over their shoulder. Then they think about Aziraphale’s obsession with a good romance, and regency, and courting, and all the finer things in life. And all that thinking, one thought hopping to the next, and the thoughts start taking a more melancholy form. _Is Aziraphale as happy as they are? Is this forever? How can they ensure that this lasts as long as possible?_

By the time the shop closes for the day at precisely 4:17pm, Crowley has worked themself into tizzy and has come to the conclusion that a good partner would not only treat Aziraphale to some of the finest culinary delicacies, but also make them. Aziraphale, their mind argues, had taken interest in Crowley’s plant collection, consented to putting a tv in the backroom of his shop and watching the Golden Girls (or at least not fussing while Crowley watches the Golden Girls), and was learning the basics of hair-braiding so he could assist Crowley’s beauty routine should they grow it out again. Aziraphale was absolutely perfectly wonderful and Crowley wanted to do something to show they appreciated all the effort. Crowley, it was decided, would make their angel breakfast [1]. 

After mastering astronomy, auto mechanics, and horticulture, Crowley scoffs at the idea that baking could be difficult. Crowley, unfortunately, is wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] It should be made clear that Aziraphale has never asked Crowley to make him a crepe or muffin or scone. In fact, he has never even remotely hinted he wanted the demon to make him breakfast. Crowley is determined to do so anyway.


	2. An Attempt at French Toast

It’s only two days later - a rainy Monday morning - when Crowley first decides to tackle the art of baking. He leaves Aziraphale reading in bed, murmuring something about demonic plans, and makes his way to the ground floor. He peruses the bookshop for recipe books, not 100% certain Aziraphale even keeps any on hand, and happily finds a small section tucked along the bottom shelf nearest the door. He pulls out a book from the turn of the century (the previous one of course, not the millenium), sees no reason why this book isn’t as good as any of the others, and settles in at their kitchen table, one leg up and his chin tucked up over his knee. He opens it to the section on breakfasts. Scones. Crepes. Muffins. Pancakes. Danishes. Donuts. Waffles. The choices are seemingly endless and he hasn’t even made it past the baked goods to the egg and meat dishes.

He closes his eyes for a second, not willing to admit he’s already overwhelmed, and determines that overthinking is overrated and he’ll simply make whatever recipe he opens the book to next - let chance run its course. He takes a breath, flips to a random page, and… Caramel French Toast it is.

The ingredients are simple enough - eggs, milk, vanilla, salt, and bread for the toast; brown sugar, whipping cream, corn syrup, and butter for the caramel. He debates going into town for the ingredients - weighs the cons of going out in the rain against the superiority of human made ingredients over those created by miracle, and it’s not long before he’s slipping out the door and onto the streets of Soho. The ingredient list memorized, he quickly fills a basket. The last ingredient he needs is bread. He turns the corner to the bakery section and finds himself staring at a literal wall of choices. He’s sure the recipe book just said bread, but he doesn’t have it on him to check, and honestly, how different can one bread really be from another. He scans the types - brioche, ciabatta, rye, French, Italian (he makes a mental note that bread, like humans, can have nationalities) and feels himself slowly panicking over the seemingly endless number of choices.

An eldery woman excuses herself while reaching around him to grab a loaf of pumpernickel. Pumpernickel. That sounds familiar; he’s sure Aziraphale has talked positively about it at some point. He glares at the bread for a few more moments before snatching it up. “You will be delicious,” he snarls at it before adding it to the basket.

**** **** **** **** ****

Crowley scans the recipe for where to begin:  
 **Step One:** In a 2-litre saucepan, mix brown sugar, butter, cream, and corn syrup. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until smooth. DO NOT BOIL.” He reads aloud. “All caps, huh? He chuckles to himself. “Seems a little overkill.” He gathers the ingredients, measures them out, and puts the saucepan to the side for now.  
 **Step Two:** In a shallow bowl, beat eggs with fork. Beat in room temperature milk, vanilla and salt. Step Three: Dip bread slices into egg mixture, making sure all egg mixture is absorbed; arrange over topping in dish. Cover; refrigerate at least 8 hours or overnight.

Seems straightforward enough. His milk isn’t at room temperature, but if he waits that long Aziraphale will most definitely make his way downstairs and the surprise will be ruined. After a moment's thought, he decides it can’t be all that important anyway.

Ingredients whisked together, he moves on to cutting slices of bread. They’re not as neat as he’d like, but he consoles himself with the thought that for all his love of finery, Aziraphale surely loves food for the taste, not it’s appearance. He dips the slices in the mixture and moves it to the baking dish without reading Step Four[1]. How hard can it be to add bread to a baking dish, he dismisses. He moves the baking dish to the oven and reminds the oven that it doesn’t really need to preheat, but can just be 205*C now if it’d like to. The oven finds that it really would like to.

With five minutes left on the timer, Crowley sets the caramel mixture on the back burner on medium heat while the toast finishes its bake. Quite pleased with himself, he starts to set the table, keeping one eye on the sweet concoction as he works. The table is set, the kettle is heating, and the caramel looks about ready when the timer goes off. Crowley startles, drags his eyes away from the saucepan, and grabs the toast from the oven.

He frowns.

The toast looks... less than appetizing. And that’s putting it politely. More like a soggy lump of congealed brown mess than the springy golden breakfast the image in the book seemed to suggest. He places the baking dish to the side and fetches the book. He glares at the toast and rescans the recipe, once, twice, three times, then glares at the offending toast once more for good measure. Alright, so I didn’t oil the baking dish. And I didn’t warm the milk to room temperature. “It can’t have made THAT much of a difference could it?”, he wonders aloud. The kitchen doesn’t provide him with an answer, and when he looks back at the disaster of a breakfast, the toast hasn’t become any more editable in the intervening minutes - it is still somehow both burnt and a soggy mess.

Those precious minutes were plenty of time however for the caramel to take its revenge. At least, that’s how Crowley will describe it later. When he turns around - the smell of burning sugar distracting him from the curses he’s currently sending the toast - he finds that there’s now a molten lava monster worthy of the deepest pits of hell on their stove. “Fuck.”

He flicks the burner off and buries his head in his hands.

He only has a moment to wallow in his failure, however, before he hears Aziraphale on the stairs. “Crowley, dear, are you alright? I smell something burning.” Crowley casts around the kitchen - taking in the ruined saucepan, the still spreading caramel burn, the soggy toast, and the eggshells in the sink - and for a moment he considers miracling it all away. He has maybe three seconds before Aziraphale rounds the corner, and he’s not sure the amount of coaxing the oven will need to forgive him his errors can be accomplished in that time. Aziraphale has already smelled it anyway and will certainly insist on an answer. He decides the kitchen is what it is for the moment and moves to the doorway to intercept his husband.

“Hey angel,” he says, leaning nonchalantly against the door jam. Aziraphale greets him with a quick kiss, “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, angel, no worries. Uh, experiment gone wrong. Let’s uh, sit you on the couch, and I’ll bring you tea, yeah?”

Aziraphale squints at his husband “What’d you do?”

“What’d I do?” Crowley asks dumbly.

“Mhmm,” Aziraphale nods, “You said you had “wiles” to get up to this morning, and here we are, not two hours later, the kitchen smells like it’s on fire, and you’re acting suspicious. So I repeat, what did you do?”

“Nghk”

“I promise I won’t be mad if you just tell me.”

“It’s nothing like that angel, look, I …” he blushes bright red, “I made breakfast.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen in surprise. “You did!?”

Crowley grimaces at Aziraphale’s excitement, shakes his head, “More like tried.”

Aziraphale is not deterred. Instead, he lights up even further. “Oh my dear, you’re too kind.”

“Seriously angel, it’s a disaster.”

“You’re too hard on yourself, Crowley, I’m sure it’s fine. You made it so I’m sure I’ll love it. It can’t be that bad.”

Crowley can’t help it; he tilts his head back and laughs. He steps back and makes a sweeping gesture, indicating Aziraphale should see for himself.

There’s a moment of silence. Then another. And another. Finally, there’s a soft “oh” as Aziraphale tries to school his face into something that hides his horror at what’s become of their kitchen. When Crowley, following half a step behind, sees the caramel explosion for the second time, he can’t help but giggle, and then Aziraphale lets out a laugh of his own, and the next thing they know, there’s two ethereal (and demonic) beings, howling with laughter on the floor of a very messy kitchen.

Twenty minutes later Aziraphale manages to peel himself off the floor and reaches a hand down to help Crowley up. Both standing, Crowley quickly miracles away the mess, pot included, cursing it to a miserable existence in a London garbage heap, and leaves behind a gleaming counter and stove, lined with only the base ingredients. Aziraphale moves to put the food away, but pulls up short as something catches his eye. “Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

He turns to look his spouse in the eye. “Did you make French Toast out of Pumpernickel???”

At Crowley’s indignant look and crossed arms, Aziraphale can’t help himself. He giggles. Crowley can’t help himself; he giggles in response. Before they know, they’re both on the floor again, unable to control their fits of laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Should Crowley have been so inclined to read step 4, he would find that it recommend the pan be coated with bit of oil to prevent burnt butter
> 
> New chapter next week. For those curious, here's a list of "what went wrong" with Crowley's bake:
> 
> 1\. Although many recipes do just say “bread”, you want something like a brioche or a sourdough, perhaps even a FRENCH bread for your FRENCH TOAST, or if all else fails some plain old white bread. What you do NOT want is pumpernickel.  
> 2\. Not bringing milk and butter to room temperature first (impatient) - Cold ingredients can cause the melted fat to seize up and become unworkable and downright nasty. That butter can become chunky and/or grainy.  
> 3\. DO NOT BOIL in capital letters in regards to the caramel, but uh, Crowley let it boil because he got distracted by soggy bread, and now there’s a molten lava monster on their stove. (#6 here: https://somuchviral.com/20-of-the-worst-kitchen-fails-ever/)  
> 4\. No oil in pan leads to burnt butter, but honestly at this point, what’s a little burnt butter


	3. 8 Batches of Scones

It’s been a few weeks since what has become fondly known as the “Caramel Incident” and although Aziraphale knows they’ll be laughing about it at inopportune moments for centuries to come, the disaster has been mostly put out of mind. For him anyway. Crowley is still obsessing about it. 

In the intervening weeks, Crowley has mainlined all 129 episodes of the Great British Bake Off and as he finishes up the last episode, he decides he’s ready to take another stab at this baking thing. Aziraphale is out about town, and Crowley decides to surprise him with a late afternoon tea upon his return. Confident, but determined not to let his confidence get the best of him this time, he opens up a search browser on his phone and researches his new breakfast choice: scones. Scanning a few recipes and determining they look manageable he opens up a new window and asks the all important question: Are scones hard to make?

The algorithm that is Google spits out a bunch of nonsense about what causes scones to come out too hard, which is not what he wanted to know at all. He dismisses the advice with a jab of his finger and growls at his phone. Are scones DIFFICULT to make he types instead. 

It takes 0.58 seconds for a response to appear: "Baking should be fun, and scones are not difficult.”

He nods. Fun. Not difficult. He’s got this. 

Four hours later it is very apparent he. does. not. got. this. Not even a little. A tray of undercooked scones sits next to a tray of burnt scones on the table, batter drips its way slowly down the counter, and curdled cream is causing a stench in the sink. The other remains from attempts one through seven have found themselves sitting in a quickly miracled trash bin and attempt eight is currently being scraped out of the bottom of the oven by a highly frazzled demon. “Can’t do anything right,” he mutters to himself as he moves the latest disastrous batch into the bin with the others.

Looking at the mess around him, he heaves a weary sigh and bends down to scrape the last of the burnt dough from the oven. “One more time for the angel,” he decides, determined to do this for this husband. Before he can straighten up and summon a new batch of ingredients however, the bell over the front door jangles announcing the return of Aziraphale. 

Crowley panics.

He grabs the offending scone remains and starts sweeping them into the bin bag in an attempt to hide his mess. Unfortunately, the front door is only a few steps from their kitchen, so rather than hiding his attempt, Crowley has merely smeared crumbs across their table by the time Aziraphale walks in.

Shame hits hard and he turns away from his husband in embarrassment and frustration. 

Aziraphale attempts to keep it light, simply asking, “Baking are we?”

“Clearly not!” Crowley says, spinning back around. There’s now tears making his way down his face, and Aziraphale quickly envelops him in a hug. “Oh, my dear boy.”

“I just wanted to make you scones, angel.” 

Aziraphale makes soothing noises and runs his hand down Crowley’s back. “Thank you.”

Crowley shakes his head no. “Don’t deserve thanks.”

Aziraphale tsks; he disagrees. “Oh but you do, my love. All this effort for me?”

“I’m a failure.”

“None of that now,” Aziraphale says firmly, pulling away slightly to look Crowley in the eye. “You’re marvelous. Intelligent. Wonderful. Beautiful. Magnificent. Cunning.” He places a soft kiss to Crowley’s face with each adjective. “Kind,” he adds. Crowley makes a sound of protest, but doesn’t contest it. His tears are slowing, but his eyes are still red. 

The book shop, channeling Aziraphale’s desire to be soothing, starts playing Gymnopédie by Satie. And the two start swaying slowly to the music. As the music changes from Satie to Bach, Crowley’s tears have dried, but he has no desire to let go of his angel and Aziraphale has no intention of letting go of his spouse. “I love you,” he murmurs and Crowley just snuggles closer and sniffles in response. 

Aziraphale moves them both to the back room and the couch. Once seated in their customary position - Aziraphale against one arm and Crowley sprawled across with his head in his husband’s lap. The bookshop continues to serenade them and it isn’t long before Crowley is falling asleep as Aziraphale drags his fingers through the demon’s hair. 

At least, he _was_ falling asleep before a lyric broke through Crowley’s pensive thoughts. _Uncontrolled, uncontained, your love is a fire burning bright for me._ He cracks open an eyelid to look up at the angel. “Is your bookshop playing modern Christian Rock Aziraphale?” 

Aziraphale blushes all the way down his neck. “I suppose it is.” 

Crowley laughs, "I thought it was trying to make me feel better."

Aziraphale hugs him tighter. “It is. Or, I am. Well…” he trails off, but Crowley lets him gather his thoughts in silence. “That is to say, I’ve always thought of you when I hear the lyrics.”

Crowley sniggers.

“What?”

“Are you telling me, you hear a song about God and Her infinite love for humanity and you think, ‘oh yes, that’s about Crowley and I’?” 

“You don’t have to say it like that so it sounds so ridiculous!” Aziraphale huffs. 

“It’s blasphemy!” Crowley counters.

“I …” he trails off again, “Well, when you put it that way...”

Crowley grins before closing his eyes again. 

Aziraphale would normally be more upset with the accusation, but seeing the joy return to his partner’s face is worth it. He goes back to running his fingers through Crowley’s hair as he listens to the lyrics. The song is coming to an end and his heart is bursting with love for his demon. Blasphemy or not, he knows the words accurately describe their selfless love. “You don't give your heart in pieces,” he sings quietly into Crowley’s hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter up Thursday (Feb. 11)! With Art!


	4. To Cinnamon or Not to Cinnamon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley attempts crepes this time - with Aziraphale's blessing. Can they improve their track record? Or will it be another kitchen disaster?

Crowley is upfront with Aziraphale about attempt number three. They bring it up one morning at 3am while they’re both engaged in a game of chess that’s been going on since the evening before. “I’m going to attempt crepes,” they say shyly while studying the board for their next move. 

Aziraphale considers this for a moment, takes in how determined his partner seems in this mission and rather than attempting to dissuade them or reminding them once again that the gesture truly isn’t needed, he simply says, “want any help with that?”

Crowley shakes their head no, moves their bishop, and smiles up at the angel, “I think I got it.”

Aziraphale nods and play continues, the topic dropped for now. 

Once the game ends Crowley makes their way to the kitchen to start their crepe making endeavor. Aziraphale is a hovering annoyance, but after asking too many questions, ("Are you using fruit? Oh you’re making a jam? You know cheese is easier, right? Okay dear if you insist, blueberries are fine. Frozen? You know to thaw it, right?”) Crowley shoos him out of the kitchen. Crowley does not mention it, but they've made a mental note on each and every one of Aziraphale's unsolicited pieces of advice, and they make sure to write it all down the second he's out of sight. 

Aziraphale, not wanting to make Crowley even more nervous, decides to leave their home and come back later. He hesitates by the front door, dithering on the spot for a moment, unsure if his continued advice will be welcome or not. In the end, he can't resist. “You know you need cold batter, right?” he calls out while gathering his coat.

"Mhmm" comes the distracted response from the kitchen.

“Preheating the pan is important!” he adds while opening the door.

"Got it angel!"

“Make sure it’s super thin or you’ll end up with pancakes!”

Crowley walks into view with their hands on their hips. "I thought you were leaving."

"I am, I am, sorry, on my way."

Crowley guides Aziraphale firmly out the door, pausing only to kiss him on the cheek, and then turns and shuts the door between them. With their husband decidedly out of the way, Crowley takes a moment to compose themself. Deep breath. Reread the recipe again. Put on an apron. Read their notes from the internet and from Aziraphale's hastily added ramblings. Read the recipe one more time for good measure. Deep breath.

STEP ONE: Start by simply whisking the flour with the salt in a medium bowl and combine that with milk, eggs, lemon juice, and vanilla.

Crowley pauses for a moment; they're _pretty_ sure they know what whisking is, but memories of previous failures haunt them. They pull up a Google search to confirm and miracle a whisk into existance. They measure each ingredient thrice, extremely careful not too add too much or too little of anything. They check their notes - Aziraphale had offered no warnings about whisking. This step should be safe. The take another deep breath. So far, so good. 

STEP TWO: Let the batter rest for at least 15 minutes. Or, cover and refrigerate for up to 2 days.

Crowley has learned from their previous mistakes and will not be taking this direction lightly. They let it rest. They let it rest for 15 minutes while staring at it unblinkingly lest anything unexplained should happen to it. Then they let it rest for another 15 minutes more for good measure. Nothing seems to be happening, and Crowley ponders how long is long enough. If God rested a whole day, surely the batter deserves at least an hour. They give it an hour and 20. 

STEP THREE: Grease a nonstick pan with cooking spray and set over medium heat.

Crowley miracles a pan onto the counter then crouches down to give it a lecture on the meaning and importance of "nonstick" including the Meriam Websters Dictionary definition. The pan doesn't have the ability to tremble in fear, but wishes it did. It tries to be the least sticky pan in all of existence. Crowley is pleased.

STEP FOUR: Grab 1/3 cup of the batter and add it to the heated pan; swirl the batter around so to completely cover bottom of pan. Tip: Use a measuring cup to measure and pour out the batter.

Crowley measures. They hold up the measuring cup to inspect the batter, and, unsure exactly what it's supposed to look like, they pull up a YouTube video on crepe batter and ways to ensure its sufficiently thin - Aziraphale _had_ warned about the possibility of accidentally making pancakes afterall, and wouldn't that be a travesty. 

When Crowley turns back to the stove top, he's surprised to see a new pan sitting next to the one they'd miracled into existence. The new pan is flatter and less deep than the other one and has a sticky note on top with a simple XO in Aziraphale's messy scrawl. Crowley frowns at it at first, but a quick Google search shows them that there is apparently such a thing as a "crepe pan" and _this_ is apparently a crepe pan. They push the previous pan to the side and give a lecture about the importance of crepes and non-stickiness to the newcomer. [1]

Batter measured and pan suffiently greased and lectured, Crowley is ready to start cooking. Or, they are until the remember Aziraphale's parting words about the hazards of a cold pan. They sigh. _Who knew breakfast had so many rules?_ They light the stove top and impatiently wait for the pan to reach the correct temperature. 

STEP FIVE: Cook until edges curl up, about 2 minutes; flip and continue to cook for a minute, or until golden brown. 

Once in the pan, Crowley watches the crepes intently, just daring them to burn or do something out of turn. Wisely, they do not, and twenty minutes later even Crowley is surprised by the nice stack of crepes sitting on a plate. Satisfied with their work, they turn off the burner and switch to whipping up a blueberry cinnamon sauce and a honey cream. 

*** *** *** *** ***

A few minutes after Crowley has finished their toppings, Aziraphale returns. The smell of dough, blueberries, and honey fills the air, and he takes in a deep whiff. He’s cautiously optimistic. He peers into the kitchen to see his spouse setting the table and freshly baked crepes sitting on the counter - they may not be paper thin, but they're quite impressive for a first attempt. He beams. “Can I do anything?” he asks. 

Crowley jumps, not having heard him come in. “No, no, angel just sit down; everything’ll be ready in a few”. 

Aziraphale complies, but not before pulling Crowley in for a quick kiss. 

As Crowley moves away to grab the tea, Aziraphale notices their apron and smirks. He takes his seat and waits while Crowley finishes drizzling the crepes with jam and cream and pouring them both a cup of tea. After placing both in front of Aziraphale they hover nervously and fidget, watching Aziraphale's every move.

“Sit, dear.” Aziraphale implores, but Crowley ignores him, too much nervous energy to be contained in a chair.

Aziraphale wants to insist, but decides against it. He grabs a fork and knife and cuts himself a small piece. He takes another whiff of the tantalizing breakfast in front of him and does a happy wiggle. He brings the fork to his face, smiles, and takes a bite.

His eyes immediately water. His face must show his surprise because Crowley is immediately in front of him. "What? What's wrong? What did I do? Are they bad?," they ask a hundred questions at once, not leaving Aziraphale a chance to answer.

"They're fine." He coughs.

"Don't lie to me."

He pauses. "Dear..."

"Tell me."

"They look and smell amazing, and the crepes are amazingly thin."

"Whats. wrong. with. them?" Crowley growls. 

"Ah, um, what spices did you put in.?" he asks hesitantly.

"Cinnamon," Crowley says guesturing at the counter and the red capped container sitting there.

Aziraphale frowns. "That's not cinnamon dear, that's cumin."

Crowley is silent. He cannot believe the spicerack has betrayed him in this way.

Aziraphale decides to press his advantage while Crowley is still in shock and dential. “Well, it's not a big deal. The crepe itself is delicious; we can eat it without the blueberries.” 

“It’s also in the cream.” 

"We can eat it without the blueberries or the creme.”

“Thats boring.” 

"We can get jam out of the fridge.” 

“We don’t have jam.” 

Aziraphale snaps his fingers. “We do.” 

"That’s cheating Aziraphale!” Crowley groans, but gets up to fetch the jam from the fridge. Pleased, Aziraphale starts to eat. Crowley crosses their arms over their chest, determined to be in a bad mood now that their baking endeavors have been derailed for the third time. Aziraphale, not to be swayed by his partner's bad mood, is sure to compliment the crepes themselves as he eats them.

“Truly superb, perfectly flakey. Just as good as the ones in France.” 

Crowley snorts. 

"Really. Try some."

"No thanks."

Aziraphale shrugs. "Suit yourself. They're delicious."

“Well I’m glad you’re happy, angel,” they say, still grumpy about how the crepes so easily went awry despite all their research. 

Aziraphale puts his fork down, “As long as you’re mine, I’ll always find a reason to be happy.” 

Crowley rolls their eyes, but the truth is their sour mood can’t last for long with Aziraphale’s sappy determination to make them smile.

*** *** *** *** ***

The meal eaten (Crowley eventually consented to nibbling a taste off Aziraphale's fork), the two begin cleanup. Crowley is elbow deep in soapy water as Aziraphale scrapes the bluberry jam with cumin into the trash can. “Hey Crowley, I think you look better than you cook.” 

Crowley eyes their own apron, “Shaddup!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] The first pan is unsure whether it should be put out or relieved. 
> 
> Crepe Recipe: https://diethood.com/blueberry-sauce-crepes-honey-whipped-cream/
> 
> Hope to update this weekly. Should be one more full chapter and an epilogue (with another piece of art from Shadow0Kana!)


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